A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER IX.
THE MESSENGER FROM STATEN ISLAND.
For a long time George lay awake underneath the pier, worrying more and more about Carter. At last he decided that it was better to take the brightest view of things, and that there was no use borrowing trouble, taking all into consideration.
"He may have hailed and I not heard him," he reasoned, sensibly, putting it out of his mind; and looking out, he saw that the fog had cleared away, the anchor lights of the fleet shone brightly, and their reflections flashed in the waters of the bay.
While watching he fell asleep again. But he was soon awakened by footsteps that literally sounded in his ears. The planks of the pier were only a few inches above his head, and some sand fell through the cracks upon him. It had been daylight for two hours or more, and it was stifling hot in his cramped hiding-place.
The sounds that had aroused him had been made by a party of sailors coming ashore from some of the boats that were tied to the landing. On the beach below a number of small craft were drawn up, and some Jack Tars and a few soldiers were digging in the sand for clams.
"Jupiter, but I'm hungry," murmured the young Yankee soldier, "and as dry in my throat as a sooty chimney!"
Something that was said above his head rang so well with his thoughts just then that he made a sudden movement, and almost broke his nose against a beam.
"What have ye in th' bottle, Jock, my lad? Douse my pipes! but have ye got into the Admiral's cellar?"
"Nothin' but cold spring water, messmate," was answered, cheerily. "But I fain 'twere what had once been inside this bit of glass. I'm sick of the mealy wet they give us on the Roebuck."
"Water's water the world over, when it comes to drinkin'," was the answer. "I wouldn't spoil the thirst I have on me for my morning's grog for the best spring water in this curst land we've come to."
"Hist! here," said the water-drinker; "I've got something else, me hearty, that will make your tongue curl. It's a meat pie and a big hunk of cheese. I prigged it out of the kitchen window up at the big house yonder."
"Let's off where we can get a taste and smell, messmate. It will be hard to take with us."
"Stay! here comes the Captain! Hide your prog; we'll come back for it. Don't be caught red-handed, man!"
George saw the bottle and a bundle wrapped in an old bit of straw matting thrust under the boards of the pier.
The two men hastened to the float and joined five or six of their companions, who were waiting there.
Presently a man with a cocked hat came down, walking quickly. He gave a few curt orders, and the sailors manned one of the boats and pulled for the first of the outlying vessels.
"Necessity knows no law," said George, reaching out with the boat-hook.
He skilfully rolled the bottle towards him. It had once contained Madeira. Then he hooked on to the bundle, and soon landed the meat pie and the cheese. This done, he poked the matting outside in full view.
"Three good meals here," he said, munching away flat on his back. "Now, how to get out of this."
There were only two plans left—to wait until dark and try to obtain possession of one of the boats, or go inland and attempt to find a friend in one of the island farmers. He decided on the former.
It would take too much space to detail the conversations he overheard, or to tell of the chagrin of the sailor-men when they found out that some one had unearthed their spoils. They laid the blame on a landing-party from another vessel, however, and their language was that generally accredited to pirates; but it seemed to ease their minds in a measure. While they were declaring in several different languages that they would catch the thief George smiled in his hole in the sand, and commenced his mid-day meal.
His range of vision was somewhat constricted on account of his narrow quarters, but he could see everything plainly that went on seaward.
The sailors and soldiers appeared to crack rough jokes and grumble rather than carry on coherent intercourse, and so far as news went, nothing could be gleaned.
About five o'clock in the afternoon George heard something at last that made him strain every nerve to listen. His heart thumped against his ribs.
"Pardon me, my Lord," a rich voice spoke, "but to-night would be the time. Look at yonder clouds. The Yankees would hardly expect us to land in the face of such threatening weather. 'Twould be a trick worthy of their own invention."
"There will be a storm, Cornwallis," answered a good-natured drawl. "I hate to start the ball rolling to the accompaniment of Jove's music, and I think rain dampens ardor. But it is as my brother says."
"What think you, my Lord Howe?" asked the one addressed as Cornwallis.
"If it storms, land twenty thousand troops. The rebels will not come to terms—deluded fools! Let's have no more temporizing." This was said in low firm tones that showed the speaker was accustomed to authority.
"Land it is," replied Cornwallis. "I doubt if they have a sentry posted. Phœbus Apollo! Look at the front of that black cloud. Hurry, sirs, or we will not make the ships before it be upon us."
Three gentlemen in silk stockings—for George could see their well-shaped legs before he caught a glimpse of anything else—walked down the pier. The sailors lounging about sprang up to attention; a soldier who had been playing leap-frog with a companion froze stiff with his hand to his sweltering forehead.
"Out oars! Give way!" and two big barges left the float, Cornwallis in one, and the two other distinguished figures in the second.
"Lord Howe and his brother, the General, that's who you are," whispered George. "And you are going to land twenty thousand troops on Long Island, eh? Oh, if Washington only knew! and I am going to let him into the secret, gentlemen, if the good Lord will prosper me."
He lay back again and proved for darkness, for his plans were now well formed.
A few yards up the beach lay a ship's dingy—the smallest boat swung at her side or stern quarters. Stoutly built and bluff in the bows, it was made for weather. Extending over the gunwale was a pair of new oars. The little boat had been hauled up on the sands to be calked and painted. The job had been finished early in the morning. All day had George cast covetous eyes at her.
Now as if in answer to his prayer, it had grown dark suddenly, as if the night had sprung forward some five hours. There was great to do out on the water.
Signals climbed up and down the halyards. Drums tapped, and on shore trumpets answered one another, it grew darker and darker, and, be joyful! the tide was coming in strong, rippling against the pier-head and creeping up the beach. All of the boats had been called back to the fleet; but the dingy was left, and George's hopes rose. All his chances lay in her.
The pier was deserted, and he loosened his limbs from their temporary grave, and worked his head and shoulders out and looked around. "There lies the city," he said. At this moment a great seam of fire ran across the cloud and hurled itself down at the earth. A burst of thunder followed. This was the bolt that had felled the elm so close to his friend Carter.
George crawled out and stumbled. He was so stiff that his knees hurt him when he moved. Now the wind came, and the rain began that wonderful downpour; the lightning flashed incessantly. George hid alongside the dingy. He caught momentary glimpses of the nearest ships getting out stern anchors.
Now was the time for moving. The rain fairly stung him as he stood up and applied his shoulder to the dingy's bow. He dug his bare toes into the sand, and the muscles knotted in his arms and back. But the boat moved not so much as a finger's breadth. Again he took fresh hold, and strained until his ears pained and the cords of his neck were tense as bow-strings.
The small boat ploughed backwards, the tide caught the stern; then the rest of the launching was easy.
Many a sailor in that great fleet could not have done what this deep-chested boy of sixteen had accomplished by sheer strength.
As the dingy floated, George waded after her, and giving a final push, tumbled over the side. The current swept him up the shore. Even if seen by the big sloop-of-war that lay nearest to him, he reasoned that in the midst of all the bustle on board no one would think of putting after a drifting boat. He shipped the tiller, and kept well out of sight until the pitching and tossing told him he was getting into deeper water.
When he raised his head he was surprised to see what a distance he had travelled, and he thanked the lightning; it enabled him to keep his course. By stepping one of the oars in the mast-hole he increased his speed perceptibly.
It was manifest that Lord Howe meant what he said, for now and then he saw crowded boats running before the gale straight for the Gravesend beach. Rolling and plunging, the dingy made headway to the north.
Washington was holding a conference with his officers in the big room of the Kenedy House. Lately it had been rumored that Howe was going to up anchor and make sail for Philadelphia.
The storm raging without at times compelled a pause in the conversation. It was nearly midnight when a rapid knocking on the door followed the lull caused by a tremendous thunder-clap.
An officer thrust his head in from the hallway. "Pardon me, your Excellency," he said, "but there's a well-nigh drowned youth here, who claims he has come from Staten Island and bears news of importance."
"Show him in at once," said Washington, pushing back from the map-covered table.
Some of the officers half arose as a bedraggled figure entered. Barefooted, clad only in his shirt and trousers, with a big smooch of black paint covering half his face, the messenger drew himself up at attention.
"Well, sir," said the General, "what have you to tell, my lad?"
"I have just come from the British fleet," was the reply. "They are landing twenty thousand men on Long Island near Gravesend, your Excellency."
In a few words he told his story, and great was the excitement. In obedience to an invitation, the bearer of the tidings had sat down in a corner of a big sofa. The water dripped from his soaked clothing.
"Here, one of you gentlemen take this brave lad and find him something warm and dry to wear," spoke the Commander-in-chief, kindly.
One of the aides arose. "I have nothing but a spare uniform," he remarked, as the two went out into the hall and climbed the stairs to a little room on the third floor.
In a few minutes they returned, each dressed in the full uniform of a lieutenant.
Three cannon had fired in quick succession, and as they entered they roared again from the Battery.
Most of the officers had disappeared. Two were despatched to inform the Convention at White Plains. But near the door stood one who had evidently just come in out of the storm. It was John Clarkson, commanding the Tenth New Jersey Foot—George's own Captain.
Washington was standing; he took a step nearer as the two young men came into the room. "I have seen you somewhere before, my lad," he said, "have I not?"
"Yes, General," was the response. "You did me the honor of speaking to me."
"I remember," said the Commander-in-chief; "your name is Frothingham, and you have a sister and aunt. Am I not right?"
"Yes, General."
"You are now a sergeant," went on Washington.
"Yes, your Excellency."
"I have in my hand your commission as Lieutenant."
George almost fell, and so overcome was he that he could not reply.
Captain Clarkson hurried up and grasped his hand. "God bless you, my boy!" he said, much affected.
"I pray you will accept the loan of the uniform," said the young aide. "There will be no time to get another."
At first George demurred, but his new friend insisted.
"You will honor it," he said, showing his fine teeth in a gracious smile. "No need of further thanks."
A tall dark man spoke up. "I have a vacancy in my regiment. May I have this young man to fill it?" he asked.
Washington smiled. "You are hereby assigned to Colonel Hand's regiment of rifles," he said. "Now, gentlemen, there is work before us on Long Island."
George, huddled under a canvas tent an hour later, in the clumsy boat that was ferrying him and some of his brother officers across the East River, glanced at the lace on his cuffs.
"I never thought of asking his name," he said, out loud. "What a dolt I am!"
One thing had begun to weigh on his mind increasingly. He had heard no news of Carter. He breathed a fervent prayer that he would see his friend again.
The next day was the 23d of August.
When the young Lieutenant crept out of the hay of a small barn early in the morning—for he had joined his new command the night before through all the storm—he walked to the brow of a little hill that overlooked the marshes and meadows in the direction of Gravesend. The branches of the trees along the hill were filled with men watching intently something that was going on below. George climbed a short distance up a small oak.
There they were—the British! It seemed to him thousands upon thousands. Their red coats gleamed, and occasionally a musket or a sword flashed in the distance; the different bodies of troops moved like red caterpillars across the meadow and along the beach. Numbers of boats were drawn up on the sand; many more were shuttling back and forth to the vessels in the bay; three large frigates were anchored quite close in shore.
He looked at the men about him. It hardly seemed possible that these lads, many scarcely older than himself, in gray yarn stockings and patched coats, would be able to stand for an instant against that brave array. Oh, if his brother William were only here beside him! and yet he heaved a sigh of relief, for who could tell what was going to happen?
A bugle sounded, and the men ran back to the clearing and formed in line. Their faces were pale, and there was little talking. A feeling of unreality was in George's mind; he could scarcely believe that there was going to be a battle. As yet he had not heard a death-dealing shot fired in all his life, and he did not know that it seemed to have a different sound from that of a gun discharged in practice or in sport.
Soon the regiment was on the move. They drove before them, as they made their way along the ridge of hills, all the cattle and live-stock that could be gathered in from the surrounding farms.
Looking back, they could see columns of smoke rising from the direction of New Utrecht and Gravesend. Some cannon-shots were also heard, and every heart beat quickly with excitement.
At last they reached the spot where the road crossed the Flatbush meadows and wound up the valley. It was known as Central Pass. Here coats were thrown aside, and with spades and improvised picks and shovels a long redoubt was thrown up along the ridge. For three days they toiled incessantly, felling trees and making escarpments of sharpened stakes.
It had rained almost incessantly, and it seemed to George that his new clothes would never get dry again. He had slept each night upon the soaked ground, and his hands and feet were sore and blistered.
It was nine o'clock in the morning. The redoubt had been finished, and the men, after an early parade, were cooking their breakfasts over little smoky fires in the thickets. Suddenly the booming of two guns was heard behind them.
For a day or so there had been random shots in front, but what did these two lone reports mean? The soldiers jumped to their arms. A bugle had rung clearly and sharply at the bottom of the hill. It was a strange call it played.
"Steady!" was the word that came down the line. "Keep your fire until they are close to us. Aim low. Keep cool."
Such were the instructions that were passed along by the officers. Colonel Hand had stationed himself behind George's company. He was standing so close that the latter could overhear what passed.
"I know not what those two guns mean," said Colonel Hand to a Major Chauncey, "but signals of some kind, I judge they must be, from Sullivan's forces over to the eastward."
But little did he know that it was those two signal-guns that had set on foot the action, and that the sound had caused a feeling of exultation to run through the English lines.
Now at the bottom of the hill could be seen moving troops; strange tall hats extended above the shrubbery, and a line of brilliantly uniformed soldiers burst out into the meadow. The green coats, the white and red facings, and the glitter of brass told who they were.
"The Hessians!" exclaimed Major Chauncey. "Steady, lads. We can lick the Dutchmen."
On they came. The clicking of the locks could be heard along the redoubt. The men, trembling, but cool under the influence of their commander, were settling themselves in easy positions for taking aim, when suddenly a spreading volley was heard in the rear.
What could it mean? Surely there were none of the enemy behind them. Why should the forces be firing?
"Here, some one climb a tree! Take this glass!" shouted Colonel Hand.
George stepped forward. It was no effort for him to make his way up into the branches; but he did not need the glass, and his heart stood still. He could hardly form the words that were upon his lips. What he had seen was this: Gleams of red flaring here and there along the hill-side behind them.
"We are surrounded," he shouted down, and slid through the branches with a crash.
Some of the riflemen were sent back to meet the new forces in the rear, but by this time the firing had commenced along the line, and the Hessians were swarming up the hill. So confused now became events that George could only see what happened close to him, and even of that his recollections were most vague.
A tall form burst through the bushes, and a great red-bearded face thrust itself over the redoubt. In an instant the forms seemed to be all around him. The shouts varied, first in one direction and then another. He could never forget the horror with which he saw a tall Hessian draw back his bayonet at a young figure on the ground.
Twigs snapped and crackled all around, the bullets ripped through the leaves of the trees, and the first thing the young sergeant knew he was standing breast-high in a thicket, and before him stood a green-coated foreigner who was breathing hard from the charge through the brush, and who held at George's throat the point of a bayonet.
Captain Clarkson's company was at the extreme left wing. A little brook ran down the hollow, and most of the fighting had been at the front and to the left.
George scarcely noticed the shrieks and cries for mercy and the groans. His eye was upon the figure standing in front of him, and the blade of the roughly made sword he carried was grating against the bayonet that was thrusting at him viciously. Twice he parried, and then his opponent lunged again. The hilt and the musket came together with a clash. George lost his footing, tripped over a fallen branch, and fell backwards; but so great was the force of the lunge the green-coated soldier had levelled at him that the latter too lost his balance and pitched forward. Both fell over the bank of the little brook and rolled down into the shallow water. They were now out of sight of the fighting and locked in each other's arms. The Hessian snapped with his teeth like a cornered dog, and with his fingers tried to close about George's throat. But the boy was strong and wiry, and the man was tired from his sharp run up the hill. Over and over they went in the sand and pebbles, the young American silent, but the Hessian grunting and cursing in his foreign tongue. At last George was on top, and his hand closed about a large stone. He struck the man a heavy blow between the eyes, and the latter relaxed his hold. He lay there with his body half in the muddy waters of the brook.
George looked about him. The firing had now grown less and less, but the shouts were still heard, and occasionally a bullet whistled through the trees. Stooping, he picked up his dented sword, and without a glance at the figure of the senseless German, made his way down the stream. He crawled under the corner of a rail fence, and lay there in the ferns trying to get his breath.
It was evident that Colonel Hand's brave forces had been destroyed; the Americans had been driven back and defeated.
As night came on George moved from his hiding-place, and crawling on his hands and knees, made his way again to the top of the incline. And now his experience "playing Injun" at Stanham Mills came into good use. He knew that the Americans must be to the northward.
Occasionally, as he went through the bushes, he stumbled across the victims of the Hessians' fury, and, strange to say, again a feeling of unreality came over him, his mind was so fixed on his own dangerous position.
Watch-fires were on every side. Once or twice he had, unseen, crawled across the beat of a British sentry, and in this way he entered the American lines. In fact, he did not know he was there until he saw the heavy earth-works, and heard a voice exclaim quite close to him:
"New York is lost, but we can whip them in New Jersey, I can promise you."
George knew that voice in an instant. He arose from behind the stone wall along which he had been crawling—for he had long since been in among the houses. "Colonel Hewes!" he said. "Oh, Colonel Hewes!"
The party gathered about the fire in the road-side started.
"Who's there? Who called me?" inquired the one who had been speaking.
"I, George Frothingham," was the reply.